


Once

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (They Thou Each Other), M/M, Tolkien Pastiche, Use of Singular Informal Pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Before their fight, Fingolfin and Morgoth taunt each other.





	Once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



"Oh Foe of Gods and Eldar race, I wait thee here. Come show thy face!" Fingolfin's voice was loud in the stillness of the dead land before the gates of Angband. No watcher from the walls moved more than their eyes to show that he was heard, and even the echoes of Fingolfin's voice seemed hushed. 

The pause stretched out interminably. Fingolfin took off his helm, holding it in his hand, and was just about to raise his voice once more when the footsteps began. Thunderous, implacable, they were the footsteps of a giant, the footsteps of a god. He waited, sword in hand. 

The gates opened. A huge towering form appeared, the Iron Crown atop its head. Morgoth was clad in black armour, and must have been at least twenty feet tall, well more than double Fingolfin's own height. He did not carry a sword, but a giant's mace. 

Fingolfin had not seen Morgoth since before the slaughter of the Trees. The change in him was terrible, a devastation of the spirit that showed plainly in his form and face. In Valinor he had favoured a fair form, tall and pale with long dark hair, very similar to Finwë or to Fingolfin himself, in fact, but here his face was like a burnt, charred, twisted shadow of itself. 

His skin was rippling with veins of fire beneath the flesh, and he was blackened and burnt, like he had been caught in a fire that would have killed one of the Eldar, but was unable to shift away from that charred form. Every moment of life in that body must be agony, Fingolfin caught himself thinking, and smiled. Good. 

On Morgoth's brow, the cause of his pain, the Silmarils, blazed high and bright. Fingolfin fancied they recognised him with hope. 

"So, little king," Morgoth said, his voice like the deep rumbling of the fires at the heart of the earth, "thou wouldst challenge me?"

"Nolofinwë is my name," Fingolfin said defiantly. He looked up at Morgoth, feeling very small, but very full of rage. His father's face flashed before his eyes, standing tall and proud as he must have done even in the moment of his death at this creature's hands. He raised his voice. "Thou hast slain my father, my brother, my son, my nephews. Thou hast blighted the land with thy abominations, in mockery of the the Eldar, and thy foul creatures, the dragons, werewolves, and vampires. Thou hast plundered my lands, ravaged my coasts, burnt my cities, and destroyed the lives of my people. Thou art even now sending forth thy minions and thy dragons to befoul my lands and murder my folk. Thou art a tyrant! Thou art a miscreant! Even now thou wearest the fruits of thy thievery on thy brow." 

He paused for breath and would have continued, but Morgoth spoke. 

"Ah, the Silmarils," he said, a hint of malicious laughter in his deep rumbling voice. "They belong not to thee either. They are mine by right of capture."

"They are my brother's by right of creation!" Fingolfin shouted. 

Morgoth cocked his great head, bending down a little to look more closely at Fingolfin. "Ah, I recognise thee now," he said. "The child who followed ever in his half-brother's footsteps. The boy who ever wondered why his half-brother did not love him. The one who was so easy to persuade to forge swords, upon learning that his half-brother _may have been_ doing so. The one who stood witlessly silent at his half-brother's challenge! A master of thralls, indeed, a king of wisps and shadows! A High King in but name, as though wert a High Prince in but name, a lesser son, a weaker brother." He bent down further, meeting Fingolfin's eyes, as Fingolfin stared up at him in defiance. "In truth, it is well that thou art fair, for otherwise I can see no use for thee." 

Fingolfin tore his eyes away from Morgoth's. "Thou liar and father of liars," he ground out between clenched teeth. "Thou most foul, thinkest thou that I care if I appear fair to thee?" 

Morgoth reached out a large blackened hand, and Fingolfin raised his sword. "Nay, put thy sword down, for our challenge has not yet begun," Morgoth said, and passed his hand over Fingolfin's hair in a seeming-gentle caress. 

Fingolfin had expected it to be hot, to burn him, and was taken aback when instead Morgoth's hand was cold, sending shocks through his blood of remembered Ice. Slowly he lowered his sword, the touch of Morgoth's hand bringing back vivid and now horrifying remembrances of the days when Melkor looked upon him (so he thought) with favour, and sought to court him. Subtle it was at first, mere court flattery he thought it, but then it grew into something more, and there was one night....

"Thou didst once," Morgoth said as if reading his thought. "Thou wert all eagerness to take me to thy bed, once upon a time." He slowly drew his hand through Fingolfin's hair again, and Fingolfin shivered in horror at both the touch and the memories. 

"Once," Fingolfin said. "Once when thy foulness was hidden, once when I was deceived, once that I will regret forever. " 

"Thy brother would never have been so deceived," Morgoth said, petting his hair one final time, and the words were like a blow to Fingolfin's heart, for they were true. Though Morgoth's lies had still reached Fëanor, at least he had not listened directly to him. 

"Then he was the wiser of us, to shut his gates in thy face," Fingolfin said, moving back and away from Morgoth's touch. The feel of his cold hand was sickening like the touch of some dead and rotting thing, closing off Fingolfin's air, making his stomach roil with disgust. 

Morgoth laughed. "Alike and alike you both are, neither more wise than the other, for look, here thou art where Fëanáro got the blow that slew him." He gestured to the wide space about them with his mace. "At least he died upon his feet. Thou, Fingolfin, I tell thee true, thou shalt die upon thy back, and great pleasure will I take in it." 

Fingolfin looked up one final time as he donned his helm again, raising his sword and readying his stance to run forward. "Thou shalt have no more pleasure of me, Morgoth, Enemy of the World," he said, "for now my only desire to cause thee pain." 

He leapt toward Morgoth, as the lightning leaps, and the ground shook as mace met shield.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there is a reference to the US Declaration of Independence in this fic.


End file.
